KONY 2012

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Earning it.

I want my face to flash my life's narrative in an instant. I want each emotion and thought and whim carved there. I want a permanent set of parentheses around my mouth--a side memo to the world that I am a woman who has smiled so many times that my joy is forever etched there. I want a brow furrowed in thought or concern for my children, my students, the people I love. This brow will show I cared. Deeply. I want crow's feet scratched across my eyes' corners from squinting and straining to see my world in clarity, from laughing and making funny faces. I want my face to be a written word, a calligraphy of experience, of pain and peace and worry. I want my skin to memorize my life's work. To not only whisper but project the message that I lived a life worth living.

I want to earn my face. The story--my story--that is written on it. I want my face to tell my tale before I utter a single word.

Rising Up

"The greatest waste

in the world is the

difference between

what we are and

what we could become."

~ Ben Herbster

This post, if I'm honest, feels incomplete even as I begin it. Because it sort of is. I'm not sure all of what I want to say or how I want to say it. I fear it will all come out wrong or that it will reveal too much or, well, who knows. It is deeply personal. It reveals my naivete, my-head-in-the-clouds, my weakness. So I want to be clear.

I’ve been thinking lately about potential. About our ability to rise up to that which is within us, but, more often, our tendency to fritter it away with notions that we cannot achieve much. I’m thinking about this for many reasons: the insanely good writer/student I have who, sadly, prefers the football field and friends to honing his talent on the page, for one. I sat him down today and talked to him about it. I thought he should know just how good he could be at this. But he has to want it; he has to do it.

And I think that is the part that is difficult. Reach your potential--this trite little phrase repeated often. But that whole reaching bit means engaging and working and striving and acting and believing. And that alone can be daunting. Life can delay and distract us from what we ultimately want. And then that whole believing bit comes into play. And...

And here is the truth of things: I am good at a few things and know it. And because of that knowledge, I apply myself to a point. I try to excel (in varying degrees of the word try). Everything else feels as though it were a possibility. And potential or no, it feels like too much.

But perhaps I am being too vague?

I am. I know.

So let me try and begin again. I feel as though I have the potential to be a really good teacher or a really good writer or a really good fill-in-the-blank, but I sometimes fall short. For whatever reason. And it is frustrating and sad to me that I want so very many things for myself that the desires seem to cancel each other out.

My biggest fear is living a life of mediocrity--survival in place of purpose and intent. Laziness or insecurity in place of confidence and dedication.

Fear it though I might, sometimes I drift into the mediocre. I get glimpses of that potential and wonder why I'm not always there, performing at that level in my own life. I wonder when it is that I will ease into the intended shape of myself, as bread rising up.

Image found here.

Safe/Celebrating

(for Melissa, who, at this very moment, is in a Kindergarten classroom student teaching)

I've forgotten what it is like, that first year of teaching, first year in "the big city" (that, I know, isn't all that big). I've forgotten what it is to rush that way, to create lesson plans the day before teaching them and make copies during the first five minutes of class while they read or write or just-do-something to give me a minute to finish preparing, to get my head on straight, to read what we're reading before they do.

Yeah, the first year (or more) in your own classroom is like that. Exhausting and panicked. Riddled with an unceasing sense of failure.

The first, second, even third year, you question whether or not you're really cut out for it.

And then you survive it. You get better. You know what is coming up next. No shooting from the hip, you've been here before. Once, twice, three times.

Last night I dreamed about moving classrooms--again. But this time I knew it wouldn't happen--somewhere in the conscious part of my brain I knew I was settled. Safe. This year, in my perfect classroom with the tables--not desks--like I wanted, the view of the western mountains and the city and the now-naked trees, it felt permanent. I threw a rug down in my office in mid-August. I brought a better chair from home. I put my college degree on the bookshelf. I brought boxes of my life from home into school--things I wanted to have here.

I'm turning 29 next month and have finally realized that this, here as I sit at my desk, this is my life. I've fully succumbed--given myself over to it. It was gradual, but I've eased into this place where I'm neither rookie nor novice. I started first period today and acknowledged it: I know exactly what I am doing.

I missed it.

Somewhere along the way this spring my blog turned two years old and shortly thereafter I posted my 200th post. And I missed it. But I'm delayed on pretty much everything these days, so I guess this is just to say happy belated birthday to my blog.

200 posts and two years' worth of blogging is quite an accomplishment. In my first post ever, I didn't know what to expect of myself or of the blogging world. And now, here I am, years later, blogging about whatever comes to mind, reading my favorite blogs as soon as they update.

Now, this blog has morphed and changed over time. My attitudes are entirely different. I've hit my stride at some moments, and at others I fall into a serious slump. No matter what my blogging mood, however, I've kept with it. While I've been thinking I've let my writing fall by the wayside, my blog has proven otherwise. The truth is that blogging has kept me rich in words.

So here we have it: post number 208, two years, two months, and three weeks later and I'm still blogging.

Rookie No More...

(The ghetto blinds snapped while another teacher used my room. Don't hate.)

In case you didn't notice, I'm a teacher. This whole "Rookie" business came about at this blog's beginnings as a very nervous, overwhelmed, and uncertain new teacher sat in front of a keyboard and started typing about her new life out of college. Her new life in adulthood. Her new life as a teacher. Her transitions, her lessons, her learning.

I taught my last classes of the year today. The final bell rang. We have two days of activities next week, but no classes. I've been counting down. I've spent the week packing, sorting, moving piece by piece of the previous three years into a new location. As I sat here facing my hollow classroom (hollow except the filing--MERCY how I want to avoid the past nine months' filing), I grew strangely emotional. Weird-emotional. Crying quietly in my emptied cage-like office emotional. I'm only moving up one floor. To a better room. I'll still be teaching for a long while. But something has brushed over me that feels a bit tingly and odd.

In the beginning I said to myself: Three years. Try it for three years and then re-assess. Well, today my three years are up. I have completed my third official year (nevermind that 3 1/2 month stint of take-over hell). I'm no longer a rookie at this. My new city feels more like home than my old city. My parent's house feels different and distant. The "teacher" title has meshed into my identity and the "student" identity I once held so tight feels far, far away. With co-workers I no longer feel like one of their students, I can call them by their first name AND disagree with them professionally. I've gained some clout; it's okay now. And my student loans are...well the good thing about student loans is that they will always remind one of past lifetimes.

I can sit here with the extra stress-pounds, the sorer feet, and know that I survived it. I made it through one of those really chaotic, confusing, disorienting life steps. I wouldn't call myself a great teacher. Maybe a novice, at best. But I'm no longer a rookie. This hollow classroom where I began this journey is officially a place in my past.

And just in case you didn't believe me and my filing woes, know this isn't the only surface that looks like this in my classroom.

Sucking, Marrow and Other Musings

Henry David Thoreau, in his near-perfect (and sometimes dull and oftimes perceptive and idealistic and occasionally silly) Walden said:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

I read these words from Walden at 22--an age fraught with idealistic dreams and fantastical notions. (OK, honesty forces me to admit that, like most English majors, I didn't exactly read all of Walden. Now that I've revealed myself for the fraud that I am, please do read on.) At that time in my life I licked every bit of it up. Transcendentalists were my collegiate mind's food. I wanted to suck marrow from life! I wanted to live deliberately! I recall that my primary goal for the entirety of my future was to, "live life authentically."

A college degree, countless hours of teaching, neverending student loan (and other) payments later and I sometimes ask myself this: am I living deliberately any more? Are those aspects of life which matter most to me actually a part of my daily life? And, teacher Rookie, being the assessment master that she is, currently doles out a big fat F for herself.

I am sucking it up. Big time. And I have no idea how to stop (or start) this life I'm living.

In my defense (excuse), every grown up person knows that reality and idealism do not make for good bed fellows. And while it may be fallacious in nature, it seems that either/or really is the only option here. So here I am, left wondering who do I kill off? The liberated idealist? The realistic responsible one? Slowly but surely, a bowl of Cheerios in the morning and a credit score over 750 win out. Is this what happens to everyone? Is this just the way it is-- a natural (albeit bumpy) transition into adulthood? Is it true that each day a little piece of idealism dies in the entirety of the adult human population? Because man does that just *suck!

*Dear reader, please forgive my propensity toward the word "suck" in this particular post.

And while I loved Thoreau in college, his words from a supposed simpler time nearly two centuries ago speak to me more now than they did then. After all, Henry David was in his 30's when he wrote Walden--not mere coincidence. Perhaps the late 20's-early 30's are a time for questioning ourselves, our motives, our lives. Perhaps it is not all bad to let the idealist get a dose of reality and wither into oblivion (or continue on, turning you into a perpetual bachelor (ermm...momma's boy) with a crush on your teacher's wife and nothing to your name but a stupid flute).

Perhaps I need to revisit my life's goals, redefine what an authentic life looks like.

So I'll begin again, John Lennon, in one of many perceptive musical masterpieces, is quoted as saying:

Life is what happens to you when you're making other plans.

And there's nothing inauthentic about that.

This image has very little to do with much of anything, other than it made me laugh and described how I feel most of the time whilst figuring out my life.

Vulnerable and Raw and Open

I am on Spring Break this week. No school for an entire week is a blessing indeed. Yet here I sit feeling less than blessed, feeling lost and vulnerable and raw and open. And so I spent the day stealing the roommate's Easter candy piecemeal, un-showered, in my pajamas, napping and doing not much of anything. Besides feeling downright depressed. Because of a 38-year-old boy who stared and stared and did nothing about it until I made it blatantly obvious that it was OK and he could perhaps even push it beyond staring. And that was too much for him and so he ignored me, quite rudely, in fact. I scared him away. And that pisses me off. So I ate too many peanut butter eggs.

I do not know what is going on with me lately. I never wanted to be the mopey single girl. The girl who longs to be married. NEVER. I was going to be happy with my single status. I was going to be independent and liberated. And yet, somehow, I've slid off that slippery slope. I feel that pitiful. Perhaps it is that I had a different plan for this age. Perhaps it is that I've entered this new phase where I see a baby and it feels as though two hands are squeezing my lungs, ringing out an old, weary sponge. Perhaps it is all those damn Jane Austen film adaptations.

Today I am honest. Today I am lonely. Today I am weak. Today I am single and rejected and it makes me mad and mopey. It isn't so much that I'm mad at him--he can't help that he is a scared little boy trapped in an aging body. It isn't so much that I'm mad about my life, either. Life is actually very good to me. Good job. Good friends. Good faith. Good family. I'm just mad at me, I suppose. I should be enjoying my single-hood and this time for freedom and travel and blah blah blah. Even my mother (bless her!) tried to tell me how I should enjoy this time, that it "isn't THAT bad" (which leaves me to infer that it is bad at some level).

I am tempted to never post this, but I think if you read all the words I punch out week after week, if you've bothered to stick it through my long-winded rants and ruminations, then you deserve to know the ugly truth: I have my off days. I am petty and weak (see previous post). I am human and learning and this is who I often really am.

The Weird Stuff I Think About

I’ve never been that great at saying “sorry.” I don’t mean the sarcastic “sorry!” I don’t mean the offhand “sorry” because you bumped into someone. Those small, accidental blips make for easy apologies. It is the big one’s I struggle with. The fighting sorrys. The offensive sorrys. The sorrys that feel unfair and filled with injustice. While I may feel horrible, every emotional nuance of that word raging through me, self-loathing sinking in, I sometimes can’t get that one out of my mouth. It is a strange paradox: I believe in the power of the word. I believe in meaning it when you say it. I believe it is one of the most important words we frail and faulted human beings utter. But I’m not always the best at saying it when I’ve really, truly messed up. In spite of what I know, swallowing my pride, my hurt, my offense can be very, very difficult. And I hate that fact about myself.

Last weekend I taught the lesson in Sunday school. It was about a lot of things, but what stood out to me were the sections about meekness. I’ve thought a lot about meekness lately. As a culture, I think most believe meekness is not an attribute to be valued. In fact, meekness spends much of its time mistaken for passivity. But I think that meekness is much different than being the doormat. For one thing, the response of meekness is consciously decided upon, it is an active state of being. Passivity requires nothing beyond sitting back and feeling victimized as life happens TO you. Meekness requires turning the other cheek. It requires forgiving, apologizing, letting go of one’s hurts, one’s pride, one’s own ego. It requires apologizing even when it doesn’t feel fair or just or easy. It requires actively putting the needs and emotions of another before your own. And, oh, how painfully impossible that can be!

I mean this jabber more as discussion-starter than as a complete and absolute thought I have. This is all more of rumination and meditation going on in my little head. These days it seems as though my life runs in winding circles of unanswered, incomplete and unsettled. This post is more about the things I want to improve upon. So what do you think about all of this? Are you meek? Do you swallow your pride? How does one say sorry for those big goof ups? Even harder still, how does one say “I forgive you” and mean it completely? And does anyone feel like they’re improving at any of this stuff? Because lately I feel like some of my weaknesses will never go away

What is Sacred?

There's been a great deal of hoopla in my home state (and beyond) about last night's episode of the HBO series Big Love. Apparently, though I do not watch Big Love, there was a depiction of an ordinance performed in the temples of my personal religion of choice, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Alice, my bestie and brilliant roommate, wrote this post about her opinions on this controversy last week. My church officially made this statement and recently posted this video on you tube:



Then, today, I listened to a local radio program conversation (Radio West) and frankly, I wasn't too impressed by the discussion that took place.

So, now that I have links galore to the official and unofficial thoughts on the matter, I couldn't help but state my own:

I suppose there was a piece of disappointment when I learned HBO would be airing such things. Not angry-disappointment--I feel there really is little reason for outrage to enter the equation (after all, what purpose would that serve me?). Not surprised-disappointment--this isn't the first time, nor will it be the last, I'm sure, that this kind of misrepresentation has occurred in the media or by other means. But a sense of saddened disappointment. Saddened because the ceremonies performed in these temples are sacred to me. So sacred, in fact, that I do not speak of them outside the walls of the temple. And while what happens here may be cause for curiosity and perhaps even confusion in others, for me it is a deeply spiritual experience separate from the other ordinary, day-to-day parts of my life. And having something so special to me used for purposes other than what they were intended is hurtful.

I'm not calling for a boycott of HBO. I'm not out to get the executive producers, the writers, or the actors in the show. That all seems really fruitless for a no-name English teacher to take on. Instead, what this whole conversation has gotten me thinking about is humanity and the sacred. It has me thinking about how we all have different definitions of what is and what is not sacred, and that is okay. It has me thinking that I could always stand to improve in this department. That, though I view myself as a respecter of all beliefs--I find religion in all its forms beautiful and filled with many truths--I could still do better. We all could.

What this experience has reminded me of is that it hurts when someone doesn't recognize how important something is to you and treats it trivially. It doesn't feel okay when, because of their own ignorance or lack of understanding, they take something of a serious nature (to you) lightly or they take it out of context or they simply misuse or misrepresent it because they don't understand.

So, rather than let my feelings of hurt transform into feelings of anger, I think I want to let my hurt transform me. Every faith has beauty in its rituals and beliefs. Every faith is sacred. Every faith deserves to be treated as such--if for no other reason than that the individuals who follow and believe in its doctrines and philosophies are beautiful and deserving of all the respect and understanding I have to give.

17 Miles

Growing up, we didn't travel much as a family.  In my parents' defense, you can imagine the enormity of shoving 10 yours, mine, and ours children into the family station wagon and you start to see why one trip to Yellowstone early on in their marriage (and in my young life--I was too young to remember the nightmare) was the only vacation I think we ever ALL went on together.

But one travel experience that took place several times every year was the long drive down to my grandfather's house in Antimony, Utah (pop. 122).  My dad loaded the willing into the car for a long weekend of sitting around listening to adults talk about people you didn't know and were possibly related to. People who were probably dead. It was misery, but I never missed an opportunity to go because it was a "vacation," a rare opportunity. And home was equally boring, though it had more toys. And even though the only television allowed came in the form of my grandfather watching Jeopardy, "the ball game," and the 10 o'clock news on full volume, there was something about it all that kept me coming back. Maybe it was in hopes of the slight chance that my dad would drive us the hour and a half to Bryce Canyon on back roads (all dirt, mind you-- I never knew there was a major highway that would take you here). We'd drive with stops along the way at the Antimony Merc, the ugliest all-dirt cemetery where my grandmother is buried right near the entrance, and at a condemned "haunted!" mill (the highlight) that I easily could have been severely paralyzed in had the rotted out wood given out under the weight of me (now that I think of it, my father--never blessed with the red flag warnings of a potential worst case scenario--was insane to take us here).

The drive down was equally as boring. My father didn't believe in purchasing the treasures to be found in the gas station. Nope, the cooler was stocked with homemade, soggy sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil (my "frugal" father thinks even ziploc bags are unnecessary) and a 2 liter of Shasta. Needless to say, I typically tried to fall asleep by Provo.

After enduring the long, miserable trip, typically in the dark, watching, waiting for the numbers to shrink on the green signs reading "Cedar City 228 miles" and "Richfield 73 miles," Antimony finally showed up, glowing like a beacon, at the entrance of UT S.R. 22. "Antimony 17 miles" it reads. And though I'd been stuck in the backseat for hours as it was, those final 17 miles always took the longest. At the end of those 17 miles was my grandpa's porch light, his dog Tibby barking in the night, the blaring sports report on the 10 o'clock news, and a big, rough hug with my grandfather's gruff Hello Schweethaht! in my ear. The drive down was miserably long, indeed, but those 17 miles were torture. The longest leg of the trip.

I haven't driven those 17 miles in who knows how long. My grandpa passed away at 92 while I was still in college and I've been back to his house and Antimony only once (another post for another time). But I've been thinking lately about how most of my life is a lot like those 17 miles. I feel like sometimes I am just surviving, enduring the monotony of a long road trip. Most days I'm trudging through the 17 miles to the weekend, the 17 miles to summer/winter/fall/spring. I'm living for what is next and not enjoying what is now. And I don't think I'm alone here. Life is frequently spent in auto pilot. Endurance mode. But sometimes, you can look up in the dark night along UT S.R. 22 and there are more stars out there than you've ever seen in the city. Sometimes the moon blinks its single silver-blue eye in the dark, murky water of Otter Creek Reservoir as you pass, and it is beautiful. This change will be a challenge, but I really want to work on redefining my idea of enjoyable moments. Life is lived in that in-between time. Life is lived in those 17 miles. Rather than thinking those miles to be a monotonous torture, I want to work on thinking of those 17 miles as my life. Wish me luck!

(And, seriously, what was my dad thinking, letting me walk around in that condemned mill?)

As Nancy Reagan Says, Just Say No

While driving home from work today I saw the following license plate frame:

"I SEE IT, I LIKE IT, I WANT IT, I GET IT."

and I thought to myself, isn't this how we got in this (now global) financial mess in the first place?

Now, I'll be honest, I have debt (see my last post and you'll see how my debt has grown recently). Frankly, I think most of us can't survive without a little bit of manageable debt. And I fully agree that there is a huge difference between an investment (such as student loans) and debt. But as I read this ominous message today, I couldn't help but shudder. What has happened to us? Since when does want equate entitlement? Why have we as a nation become so greedy?

When I was younger, I was frequently told NO by my parents. They told me NO because they just didn't have the money. They told me NO to protect me. They told me NO even when I begged and wouldn't let up. They told me NO because they saw what a miserable outcome their YES could cause. And it is true, NO sucked for a minute, but then I was on to the next thing and clearly I survived the rejection.

As I look at the greediness that seems to plague our society, I keep thinking that maybe we need to tell ourselves NO a little more. No, you don't need another pair of funky gold earrings. No, you should make last year's coat last through this year too. No, you can rent a movie instead this weekend.

You might notice this is all directed at me and my unnecessary purchases. And so I'm putting it out there in the blogosphere. I'm going to tell myself NO just a little bit more. I'm going to start weighing the difference between want and need. I may see it and like it and even want it, but that doesn't mean that I get it.

General Relief Society Broadcast

Last night I had the opportunity to attend General Relief Society Meeting Broadcast at my local stake center. I am sure many of you reading this did the same. I enjoyed the Relief Society presidency's addresses, Sister Allred's really spoke to me simply because of how recently I attended the temple for the first time.



But beyond that, I wanted to mention here how much I appreciated the words of Elder Uchtdorf. The concepts and ideas he taught were inspiring. His words about our innate desire to create and be creative simply because we are children of a Heavenly Father who is, by His nature, a creator--our creator--touched me deeply. This isn't something we generally hear about from our leaders in this exact way, to hear that we are to beautify the world around us, to take disorder and chaos and form it into something that did not exist before, is, while not an entirely new concept, certainly put into a new perspective. We are to create (and that doesn't simply mean in artistic endeavors) because our Father is creative.

He then spoke about the need for greater service. We've heard this time and time again, I know, but I love that he mentioned that offering more service in order to relieve the tension and trials of life may seem counterintuitive. Indeed, it is just oppposite of what the rest of the world says. How often have we heard, "Your children cannot be happy if their mother is not happy." And, "If it makes YOU happy, then by all means, do it." This self-centered line of thought is, ultimately, destructive. However, by offering more service, by sacrificing more of ourselves, we come to fill more at peace. This is true. I've seen it in my own life, in my line of work. On days when I am exhausted and my students annoy me and I just want a moment of quiet and everything seems to be going wrong, it always seems that an opportunity to be of help to one student presents itself. Usually this student will come to me at the exact moment that I feel I can finally sit and relax and take a breath. And when they come in, I'll be honest, I cringe a little. But when I throw myself into helping them with whatever is going on, giving them that one-on-one attention that they need, I feel re-energized. I feel good. I feel like I was of value.

If you missed the opportunity to watch it, go here. It was edifying. It was good. Amen.

10 Years Older...and a Self Portrait

Today I spent some time reading this post and this post by the Pioneer Woman (I know these were posted a while back but it seems I'm always lagging behind on her blog). For those of you who won't link up to see what was said I'll give you the low-down: basically she talked about where we end up in life compared to where we thought we'd be 10 or 20 years ago. Her story was interesting, but honestly, the comments in the second post captured my attention most--how uniquely similar we all are. Anyway, I thought it was an interesting topic of discussion and it got me thinking about a topic I brush over every now and again.

10 years ago I was ready for my senior year of high school at Kodiak High (woo. go bears.). I thought that in ten years I'd be married (after completing my degree at a college "back East" and perhaps a mission somewhere exotic and incredible) for two years to my oh-so-perfect husband and my first child (Emma) would be brand new or possibly on her way (I was a timeline planner, what can I say?). I figured I'd live somewhere other than Utah and I'd work as a stage actress and possibly appear in a commercial or two. But that, because of kids, I'd maybe step away from my great career for a while. Yes, I actually thought this would be my life in my heart of hearts. At 17, I recall now, I was oh-so-naive.

Fast forward 10 years and I'm single and childless and living in Utah with a roommate, my best friend, and the thought of performing on a stage or appearing on camera makes me sweat a bit under my arms. College happened in my hometown while I lived in my parents basement (because anyone with a brain could tell you that financially this would be the wisest decision). I'm not sure if my 17-year-old self would be crushed by this news or not. What I know is that I am very happy with where I am at.

I can't imagine what career I would prefer to teaching because, though I complain about it and it exhausts me, performing in the classroom is my life's work, my niche . I feel I get better at it every year and when it is good in that room, wow! how it feels to know you made a kid think about their world! And when it is bad in that room you always have a good story to share.

The past few years of single-hood have been a blessing. I know myself. I know what is important. And while a good marriage would be nice, I know that I am very content to keep busy until a good marriage presents itself. What doesn't appeal to me: a mediocre marriage for the sake of being married and no longer "alone."

And the thing about this supposed loneliness is, that I'm not. I'm lucky enough to live with my best friend who is like-minded and witty and good. I have a wonderfully mixed up, dysfunctional, and loving family that I get to live not far from because I'm living in Utah. And while I'm not a mom yet, have you seen the pictures of my nieces and nephews? C'mon--that is more than most could hope for!

So, 10 years later I can say that I'm nowhere near that place I thought I'd be. And it is fine by me.

Oh, and here's my squinting self-portrait challenge submission for this week:

Writers @ Work

This past week I've been in Salt Lake City at the annual Writers at Work Conference.

Faculty writers included Steve Almond, Dean Bakopoulos, Victoria Redel, Abigail Thomas (her writing happened to be my favorite-favorite and what I would recommend first and foremost to any of you--specifically her memoir A Three Dog Life), and my poet-extraordinaire workshop leader for the past five days, Kim Addonizio. And that woman can bring down a house during a reading--blues-y rifts on the harmonica and a light joking fodder that keeps you riveted. Poetry readings are not the sterile, benign events they once were with that woman reading. The woman puts on a great show, people. So great, you may not recognize her poetic prowess and know-how. (For more information on any of these writers, click on their names.)

It was an inspiring and educational week. I am still reeling with all of the information, the entirety of the experience was intense and overwhelming. I was doing 12-13 hour days soaking in information, attending workshops and panel discussions, and meeting individually with poet and editor, Martha Rhodes, to discuss more about my poetry, fitting writing into my schedule during the school year, and how to move towards publication.

I am so appreciative for the opportunity, the expertise and pure brilliance of my instructors--each were specialists in the craft of writing. Already, I am writing poems and already I can tell that I'm growing as a writer with their supportive voices in my head. And already, I am certain I'm forgetting some of what was said. But oh, what a week!

The Self Portrait Challenge

Jumping on yet another bandwagon, I know. Welcome to my newest blogging feature: The Self Portrait Challenge. Alice described it best. I think it is a great idea. The Self Portrait Challenge: an opportunity to show my ever-changing face. The challenge of this is not posing, which I'm prone to do in front of the camera. This is an attempt to catch those natural moments. Me. Raw.

Humor me while I blabber on about why I'm doing this. For me, this is about letting go of insecurities and a faulty self-image. As a woman, I am told how I am to look through a million different mediums. Mediums which, more often than not, tell me I look wrong. The SPC is about me owning my own body and my own face in my own way. No supposed rules. Who cares if I have blemishes or a double chin when I laugh? That is how I look. While I can think this, I don't always feel it. For me, this is about getting to a place where I feel it. Where that critical voice in my head just disappears. I hope that through the Self Portrait Challenge I can capture a piece of me at different spots along my life thread.

And so we begin. We'll call this one "Uncertainty".

This I Believe: The Intrinsic Value of Learning

Every year I have my 9th graders write a "This I Believe" essay. If you haven't heard about this fantastic NPR series, now you have. There is no excuse. My first year of teaching I was a little too gung-ho, I wrote my own This I Believe Essay for two reasons. First of all, this essay had been waiting in the soft corners of my mind for a while. Secondly, I thought this was something my students needed to know about their teacher. I hoped it would be an example in more than one way.

I came across it while exploring the documents on my dying computer today (I'm on Alice's computer lately), and thought I'd share. Enjoy.



I believe in the intrinsic value of learning.

I am the youngest in a big "yours, mine, and ours" family. There were many mouths to feed growing up. My parents "got by" the best they could. While both attended, neither graduated from college. Mom often tells stories about my grandfather's refusal to help her with college, "Adele, why would I waste good money to send you to college when you'll find a man to take care of you?" Women's Lib hadn't hit full force in her hometown yet.

College was encouraged in my family, however. While my parents couldn't back me financially, they put a roof over my head and helped wherever possible. After a year of saving up, I started at a commuter school just five miles from the house I grew up in.

My first semester of college, a new dimension was opened for me. Here people generated ideas, debated theories, and dissected knowledge. There was a passion for learning that erupted in me. The world I'd always lived in seemed suddenly dynamic and vivid the more understanding I gained. I recognized that there was more available and waiting for my discovery than I had time to find. I threw myself into my education, worked odd jobs that fit my schedule, took out student loans, and competed for every scholarship I could find. At the time, I knew that this experience must have been well worth the sacrifices. I grew: in self confidence, in my capacity for analytical thinking, in the very way I interacted with other human beings.

Now, more than six years after that first semester in college, I have transitioned from student to teacher. This decision came at that pivotal point in every student's education where they must ask themselves, "So, what is the actual practical application of my major?" Practicality was what first drew me to teaching. But this passion for learning I'd been fueling made me recognize I had to share this gift of learning. I wanted to help someone experience the same opportunities I had.

Today I teach English to high school kids. When it comes to teaching, I am a novice at best. Once again, I am consistently reminded of how very much I have left to learn. In my students' faces I see some who have already caught the learning bug and others who, unfortunately, struggle through each grueling class period. It is for these students I work hardest, catching them away from their peers to talk not only about future goals, but about what learning can do for the human soul. It is for these students I've spent late evenings at school hunting for materials and methods which will reach their "bored-out-of-my-skull" gazes and strike even slight interest in the power that comes hand in hand with knowledge. I work hardest for these students because they need and deserve the best I can give. It is consistently defeating work. Self-doubt runs rampant. I tell myself that if I can help just one student recognize their potential and give them tools for the road of learning and sacrifice ahead, I have made a significant impact and all the difference in the world for that one person.

I believe the gift of learning is a lifelong process that requires sacrifice and has no final destination. Education is the currency required for true success. True success, by my measure, is an ability to think and feel the force of constant challenge. Education is the ticket to a higher quality of life, a better understanding of self, and a deeper appreciation for everything and everyone around you. If there is one message I have for my students, it is this: Learning has value in and of itself. And this, I believe.

A Four Letter Word Beginning in F: On Failure

When I was in sixth grade I wanted to participate in the _________ Elementary 6th Grade Talent Show. As far as talent shows go, this was a big deal for my classmates and me. On a grey February day the sign-up sheet was passed around. I printed my name on the list with all of the anticipation an awkward 12-year-old could possess. I was certain that displaying my talent, whatever it might be (would I dance? sing? attempt ventriloquism?), for all the 6th graders to see could only provide evidence my unquestionable capacity for greatness. And so, my commitment was made. In the Spring I was to give what would undoubtedly be the performance of a lifetime.

Weeks passed by. The teacher reminded us each week of the upcoming performance. My friends spoke of their rehearsal schedules for the event. But life was happening as life tends to do and there was always more time. A girl with my flare and natural ability could certainly manage to pull it together by the time we performed.

You all see where this is going, of course. I didn't prepare until the night prior, and by then my practice was futile. So, on a Monday afternoon in the Spring, there in the school cafeteria, I stood before 80 of my ruthless peers with the cassette tape insert of Disney's Aladdin in hand, attempting, unaccompanied, to sing a solo of the duo "A Whole New World" (which happened to be one of my top three favorite songs of the moment). You can imagine the outcome. While the word gruesome comes to mind, I daresay 12-year-old boys took the taunting of my foible to a new level of cruelty in the weeks that followed. I seem to recall Nick C. (whom I will always loathe with a vicious hatred...until I seek intense psychotherapy) nailing quite the impersonation of my "performance." (My hatred for Nick C., lest it seem a little harsh, continued when he mercilessly dubbed me "Shamu" during the torture which we refer to as junior high school.)

Now, I tell you this story not for your kind pity (but I do deserve a little sympathy here, people). I tell you this story because I remember it in every painful, unharmonized, stumbling, Dear-God-PLEASE-Let-This-Linoleum-Covered-Earth-Swallow-Me-Whole-Until-I-Reach-College-Or-My-Untimely-Demise-Detail. Of many events during my childhood, I cleary remember this one.

My "performance" was a flop. A failure. Washout. Wreck. Bungle. A humiliation of the worst kind. Piece of pure rubbish. And oh, did it hurt. But here is the thing: I survived. Yes, survived. Now, I may not have walked myself into this kind of situation ever again (though I occasionally have nightmares of similar situations), but I made it through alive and well. And today I can even laugh at it--it is quite funny, really. (Though poor Nick C. still hasn't quite gained my full forgiveness).

Not only did I survive the Talent Show Catastrophe of '93, but I learned from it. I learned that talent or no, nothing replaces hard work, practice, and preparation. I learned that I had the ability, even as an overdramatic 12-year-old, to bounce back from the "depths of despair" and face those who mocked me with my head held high. I learned that I should never make fun of someone else's stumbles (exempting Nick C., of course). I learned that duets are best when sung by two people. And I learned that Nick C. would probably amount to very little in this life. Afterall, he didn't even try to participate in the Talent Show (my predictions, by the way, turned out to be quite true..."The Rookie is Petty Confession Time": I have been known to peruse the "head shots" of former classmates on a certain county jail's booking website which featured a certain grown "Saint" Nick).

The thing about failure is that we do learn from our failures far more than we ever do from our successes. Success is common and rather boring, really (unless accompanied by a previous failure overcome--why do you think everybody loves a good underdog story?). Failure offers life lessons that can't be taught any other way. And that is a gift we should acknowledge.

Oh, and if you think I'm original in my thinking (ha! that is something I am most certainly NOT): Click here for a more eloquent musing on failure. Furthermore, my comments seem scant of late--I'd love to hear all about your worst failures that taught you the very most.

Out of Focus

I am blind. Without my glasses or contacts, things more than four inches away get blurry. Those who know me best get a kick out of the fact that when I go sans prescriptive eyewear, my hearing sort of goes out of focus as well (I think it has something to do with how much I rely on body language and facial expression).

While at the eye doctor yesterday for my yearly visit, as I chose between "1 or 2, 3 or 4...now read the smallest row you can see," I was thinking about near sightedness and life. There was a time in my life I had my future mapped out years in advance. In high school it was one of those illustrious letters your young women leaders make you write to yourself ("go on a mission, then finish college, marry at 25"--the same list we've all made). In college, I could tell you a fairly specific list of which classes I'd be taking three years from that moment. I knew exactly what life looked like through December 2005: Graduation. That general estimate of what was around the bend was comforting to me. It made me feel safe, like the daily to do lists I wrote each day. The future felt under control, therefore I felt in control. As time passed, I had these baby step accomplishments--things I could check off and then tangibly see that I was closer to my destination.

Cue January 2006. In a matter of two weeks, my neatly wrapped up plans loosened, unraveled a bit, then disintegrated completely. And since then I can only see four inches ahead of me without things getting blurry. My goals are more of these hazy ideas of what I think I might like to do, but my heart won't break if I don't accomplish each on my list. (After all, one can live a full and happy life even if one never makes it to India). Problem is, I'm still trying to adjust to this lifestyle where goals are much blurrier things. It is a one-day-at-a-time kind of lifestyle and, frankly, I struggle with it.

Anyway, I suppose this is all a bit of a rambling blog post without a conclusion. I wish I were more okay with the whole out of focus business, but I'm not. I simply cannot feed you some line about "the beauty in the surprise of it all" and how "we all receive moments of clarity, yadda, yadda, yadda." Clarity-schmarity! I feel lost. AND I hate surprises! There, I said it. Surprises leave you with a bad hair day in your least favorite fat shirt on the one day you want to look your best. Truth is, I wish I had a clearer vision of where this Rookie Boat was sailing. I wish there were more chances to put on a nice pair of prescriptive life glasses that make things clear, my own little Liahona, if you will. I want to know that I'm moving in a forward direction. I want to see in clarity my path before me rather than this out of focus nonsense life often feels like.

So, there you have it. Tell me if you are feeling me, people! Oh, and talk loudly, I can't hear well without my glasses on.